


The Sound of Gunshot

by MorbidAesthetic



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Gen, POV First Person, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidAesthetic/pseuds/MorbidAesthetic
Summary: Selina Kyle, also known as Cat, has seen the Wayne adults get shot. She had heard Bruce's tortured scream. But she couldn't help him. Not then, and certainly not now. -Set on S1, E1-





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old story that I found on my account on Fanfiction.net, and I decided to post it here, to see how it does. It's a bit of a mess, but anything for feedback, right?
> 
> Pairings: hinted Bruce/Selina

I couldn't live with him. It was against my ideals, and I didn't like having to depend on someone else to shelter me. So I left. I left Wayne Manor because I couldn't live there. And then that fool boy had to follow me.

I had left for a reason. He wanted to know what it was like on the streets. So I told him. I told him, if you don't watch your back, someone will stab it. So you gotta be careful.

I knew how to take care of myself. Me, myself and I. That was it. Not me and some fool boy who wouldn't take no for an answer. I had told that cop I had seen his face. I had told him that to get out of going upstate. I had threatened another officer to do it.

Then I had told the Wayne kid I had lied. That I didn't know anything about his parents' murder. I may have been there, I may have seen it happen, but that didn't mean I knew anything about the kid's parents or their killer.

I only saw it happen because I live on the streets. If I had been at home, if I had never left my home in upstate for the streets, then I wouldn't be in this. Sure, I'd be in a hell of a lot of other things, but those things would have nothing to do with the Wayne kid.

I had told the cop/detective that the killer had shiny shoes, because that was what I had seen. Black work shoes, very business-like. I didn't realize my evidence would be anything and everything the police had. They didn't have anything else.

I heard they had gone to Fish Mooney for her help with her idiot henchmen. If that's what the police department is coming to, there isn't much hope for this city. Then again, there never was to begin with.

I had lied, and then the police had followed. They had killed Ivy's father, a big guy by the name of Mario Pepper, and they believed he was the culprit because he had sold the pearls with the same features of those that I, myself, had seen on Martha Wayne as she was shot.

I had seen the adults shot. I had seen the bullet, an expensive one from the cop's perspective, go through their white outfits and then a blossom of red erupt like lava into the fabric. The fabric that I had never seen fewer than 100 dollars.

I had retreated from the scene, not wanting to be around when all the cops came around, poking their noses everywhere. I was a known thief and it wouldn't do me any good to be around. I was about to leave, when I heard the kid's scream.

It was a scream filled with fury, but also unbearable sadness. This was when I had run, because I could see them now. The boy, with tears down his face, the woman, with the red where her necklace should have been, and the father, who should have been able to protect his family, but failed.

Failed to protect his family. As I had failed to protect mine. That was one of the reason's I had been on the streets for so long. My father left me and my mother. He left without a second thought. I remembered the day clearly.

My parent's had been arguing. They had thrown things at the wall. I didn't see them, and I didn't want to. I had hidden in my then-bedroom, and heard the whole thing. They called each other names that I wasn't allowed to at school. They hit each other and then they argued more.

They didn't notice their little girl hadn't been there. I had been sitting on the couch, but then my father came home. He was in a horrible mood from work and needed to vent. My mother was that vent most of the time, and she would usually listen to my father rant and scream in anger.

I was never here for this. I would be at a friend's house, or somewhere or other. Or, I would be in my room, trying to tune them out.

My father left us that night, and my mother, she was broken. As broken as the boy's scream, as broken as he was, after watching his parents get shot.


End file.
